


to the arms of the same sea

by figure8



Series: common tongue [1]
Category: EXO (Band), K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genderswap, Growing Up Together, Minor Violence, Pining, Poverty, but this stands alone i swear, vague futuristic world to be explored in a larger work i GUESS, yes i’m in cursed hetero land don’t even LOOK at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: It’s a cold world, a hollow world. Taemin deserves better. Taemin deserves an apocalypse, a rebirth; and yet all Jongin has to offer is himself.





	to the arms of the same sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uglyguccislippers (Hyb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyb/gifts).



> this is a sort of prequel to a much, much larger story centered around another pairing. taekai have taken ROOT in my BRAIN and they won’t leave me alone   
> i had to get it out there before it ATE ME so this is first draft/non betaed and im sorry for all that entails 
> 
> title from same sea by lights, which is a beautiful song, but the Real song here is superpowers by saara (the acoustic version if you love yourself) 
> 
> for hyb, the world’s best/worst enabler. uwu

Things he loves:

  1. Sometimes, between eleven and midnight, Taemin forgets she isn’t alone, and she starts singing.
  2. Her laughter when he gets stuck trying to unclasp her bra.
  3. In the dead of night, when she sighs in her sleep and turns, blindly seeking his presence, until she’s pressed against his side again.
  4. Her laughter when he tries to impress her and fails pathetically.
  5. How their shoulders bump on bus rides to the other side of the city, silent acknowledgement, wordless promise. How she wraps her pinky around his, loose hold, _solid_ hold.
  6. When she sneezes, she always giggles right after.
  7. He remembers that one guy who used to lurk around the elementary school in their neighborhood, when he was sixteen and Taemin was seventeen. He remembers her wiping her favorite knife on her purple skirt. He remembers how the stranger never came back around again.
  8. The way her breasts fit in his hands, the way she tastes, the way she says his name.
  9. Her laughter every time he pokes her gently in the ribs, to get her attention, to have her look at him again.
  10. She swears every two words, when they’re alone, when they’re in the street, when they’re with her friends. With Jongin’s nephew and niece her voice is honey, her sentences light. He stares at her, leaning against the doorframe, he watches her as she crouches so the kids can see her eyes. An invisible hand grabs him by the gut and tugs, and never lets go.



 

He thinks back to them fondly, the sandbox years. Taemin had been terrible then, all hard angles and shrieks, tiny tiny _tiny_ and yet larger than life, already. She used to push him around, and he’d trail after her like a lost puppy—which is still something he does, but _she_ doesn’t feel the urge to lethally wound him anymore, at least. He remembers her bundled up in her ratty coat, her pink-blue scarf. First snow, and she had shoved a fistful of it down the back of his shirt, cackling gleefully. He’d been sick for a week. She had come visit, on day three, sheepish, a precious square of half-melted chocolate wrapped in creased aluminum foil, a peace offering.

He, too, used to be awful to her, in ways that are funny, gently embarrassing now. Pull her hair, kick her in the shin, steal her toys; anything to have her chase after him in loud anger.

He’s thirteen when he sees her kiss a boy he doesn’t know, and it lights a fire inside him he doesn’t like the sound of, the low rumble—how it crackles and grows and devastates, turns him into a trembling mirror image of himself, a distorted shadow. She kisses other boys, and there is a name for the ache in Jongin’s bones, but he ignores it steadfastly, because everyone knows you’re supposed to grow out of childhood crushes, you’re supposed to learn how to love more than one person, you’re supposed to—

He thinks a lot, teenage Jongin, about stuff one is _supposed_ to do. Supposedly everyone is equal, supposedly everyone is free. In the evening Jungah lights a candle in the living room to save electricity, and Jongin breaks a protein ration in two and cuts the packaging in half carefully, wraps both pieces up and uses his lighter to seal them closed again. One day, the kids will realize protein rations are supposed to be bigger than what they’re used to, but for now, it is enough. Supposedly, growing up is an adventure; and in a way Jongin agrees, it is, but it is a dangerous one, one filled with monsters at every corner, like a video game, levels getting harder and harder with every step. Supposedly, you can make it out, you can _make it._ As far as he can trace his lineage back, no one in Jongin’s family has ever lived outside of their little street.

He thinks a lot, too, about what his body should look like. He’s almost fourteen, and he’s getting taller, tall enough to get noticed, but he’s skinny. The boys Taemin hangs out with lately have imposing shoulders, strong arms. He thinks a lot, too, about how to kiss—how to kiss her, her specifically, her always. It looks disgusting, in theory. He wants, still—he _wants,_ and it reminds him of anxiety, it reminds him of getting detention and waiting restless in a classroom for his sister to pick him up, it reminds him of—sometimes, when the sun is just about to rise, and the sky is still orange. He thinks, _too much,_ about how little he knows, and the four boys before him.

(When their lips touch for the first time, he says, _I’ve never—,_ and she says, _I know,_ and she smiles.)

 

At age eighteen, Taemin gets a job at the corner store on the end of their street. It’s a microcosm, really, their neighborhood. Everybody knows everybody. The Kims, they have a reputation. They’re good people, they’re trustworthy people. Taemin, too, has a reputation, just like her mother before her. Someone once wrote _WITCH_ on her door in black spray paint. She doesn’t care. Jongin does.

At the store, Taemin sits on one side of the counter, pretends not to see when kids steal candy bars. Her friends come around often—Jonghyun especially, the only one who’s going to college, who has free afternoons to spend on Tuesdays and Fridays. Kibum, too, even if he pretends he’s only there for Taemin’s employee discount.

“They’re _your_ friends too,” Taemin says one day. She’s sitting on Jongin’s bed, legs dangling, swaying rhythmically. Jongin shakes his head. “No,” she insists, “Stop saying _‘your_ friends’ like they don’t like you. I want you guys to get along.”

“We get along,” Jongin shrugs. He likes Jinki best. Jinki doesn’t glare when Jongin forgets to pretend he’s not staring at Taemin. He wants to ask her, _when are you going to pick,_ but he bites his tongue until it bleeds instead. She doesn’t want to pick, for all he knows. She doesn’t _have to._ She only belongs to herself.

Jongin is at the store, a few days later, picking up rice milk for Jungah, when Jonghyun drops by. It’s not a Tuesday or a Friday. He goes to kiss Taemin on the cheek, and she has to stand on her tippy-toes and lean across the counter to grant him access. The kiss lands on the corner of her mouth, but she doesn’t seem fazed. Jongin slams the bottle he was holding a little bit too hard on the battered wood, and Jonghyun jumps. Taemin frowns.

“Jongin,” she says, still frowning. He doesn’t like the tone of her voice, how much it sounds like a scolding, so he says rapidly, “I really need to take this back home.”

He lets the tiny bell at the door ring in lieu of goodbye, in lieu of see you later. His skin feels uncomfortable, sticky. He read once about seagulls getting stuck in oil spills, their feathers glued together, how they would never fly again.

(Left behind, Jonghyun rolls his eyes. _Your boy,_ he tells Taemin, _really isn’t the brightest tool in the shed._ )

 

In elementary school, he remembers, she used to get in the worst kind of trouble. She ate an entire crayon, once, to the great dismay of their teacher. Some kid said something about her mom, once, and she stabbed him between the eyes with her bow compass. There was blood everywhere, and the boy wouldn’t stop screaming. Jongin had stood between them until an adult had come, his fingers wrapped tightly around Taemin’s wrist while she hiccuped in anger.

In middle school, too, she had gotten in way too many fights. Had started carrying a pocket knife, too. Jongin had bought her a pretty dagger for her fifteenth birthday, the handle fake ivory, the blade shiny yet sharp. She has a collection, now. She’s the one who taught him—how to pick them, how to use them, how to _aim._ She made him stand against a publicity board, once, while she threw knives closer and closer to his frame. He had flinched instinctively at some point, earned a tiny scar on the side of his neck. She’d yelled at him a lot, that night.

 

“Jongin,” she says. She’s twirling her flask of rum between her hands. He looks up from the floor, to her. She’s wearing mismatched socks, today; one yellow, one black and white. “Are you ever going to kiss me?”

They’ve been drinking, but they’re not drunk. _He’s_ not drunk at all, has nowhere to hide.

“You want me to kiss you?”

To his own ears, he sounds—small. She tilts her head to the side.

“Do you not want to?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says. It’s frustrating. He’s always hoped she’d understand. “I want many things. I want to marry you, but obviously, we’re not going to do that.”

Her grin is so wide, Cheshire cat. “Take me out on a date first, cowboy.”

He doesn’t laugh. Pushes himself off the low wall, so he can face her, look her in the eye. “Taemin, I’ve been in love with you since I was four.”

Her eyes go round as saucers. “Okay,” she says, very slowly. “Okay, I knew it had been _some time,_ but that’s actually a lot. No offense, Jongin, but I kind of hated you when we were four.”

He wants to say _none taken,_ but he can’t form words around the lump in his throat. He can’t believe he’s going to lose his best friend over this, after all this time.

“Hey,” she says, reaching for his hand. He lets her take it. “Hey, idiot.” She tugs. He follows. He’s between her legs now, and with her choice of seat, they’re almost at eye level, for once. “ _Idiot,_ ” she repeats, fondly. “I do want you to kiss me.” He’s about to protest again, but she kicks him in the shin. “Don’t make me say it. You know how much I hate the corny shit.”

From this close, he can smell the city on her, under the cheap perfume she always wears. The black rings of her pupils are so large.

He stutters, “I’ve never—”, and she breathes out, “I know,” smiling.

Her lips are soft, warm. At first it’s just a pressure, and he panics, tries to think of what to do. Then she’s _kissing him,_ for real, and he stops thinking. Her hands go to cup his face, and he puts his on her waist. When her tongue darts out, touches his bottom lip, he whines, wanting. He’s nineteen. He’s never been touched.

She locks her legs around his thighs, brings him closer. He parts his lips for her, and she licks inside his mouth, languid. She tastes like alcohol and the peach they shared earlier. He’s dizzy. When they part, after what feels like hours, he buries his head in the crook of her neck, red in the face. He’s hard in his jeans, and he’s pretty sure she can feel him. He’s not—it’s not about that, tonight.

“Hey,” she whispers, her fingers carding tenderly through his hair. “I’m going to say something sappy.”

“Okay,” he says, voice muffled by her shirt.

“I love you so much. I love you so, so much.”

She kisses the top of his head, then. His heart feels raw, overused. Taking in too much oxygen at once, pumping so, so fast. He tightens his grip on her hip, wordless answer.

 

(Things he loves: this, this, _this._ )

 


End file.
